


Caged Bird Singing

by LMT



Series: Blackwater AU [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 00:57:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1920645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMT/pseuds/LMT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa attends the Hound's sentencing, and visits him after.</p><p>(Meant to go after Somewhere That Isn't Burning, but can be read alone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caged Bird Singing

**A/N: All right, here's some Sansa.  And here's Stannis, holding court with all his usual righteous stick-in-the-mudly charm.**

**(For those who haven't read Somewhere That Isn't Burning: this takes place in a universe where Stannis has won the Battle of the Blackwater, and the Hound is in rough shape because the red woman sucked the life out of him with her creepy sex magic.)**

* * *

If they hadn't announced him by name Sansa might not have even recognized him. The Hound had always seemed _enormous_ to her, tall and solid, but this prisoner was hunched over, collapsing in on himself, shoulders bowed, head hanging so low she couldn't even see his awful face.

Of course, it was hard for her to take a _really_ good look at him, because he was naked from the waist up and a lady would never stand staring.

He stumbled when people yanked on his chains, didn’t resist when they threw him down to his knees.

He stayed where he landed, hands tied behind him, swaying as if at any moment he might fall over.

He was bruised, yes, and in the quick little peeks she couldn’t help taking, she did see red places that might be wounds. But still. It was more than injury or exhaustion – she’d _seen_ the Hound injured and exhausted before. This was different. He looked… drained. Sapped of everything that made him dangerous.

 _If he were dressed,_ she thought, _Maybe I could finally_ _ **look**_ _at him the way he’s always telling me to. He wouldn’t be able to glare at me and scare me away._

“Sandor Clegane, you’ve been brought here to answer for your crimes,” Stannis said – hard and impartial, as he’d been all morning.

Every other person brought to _answer for his crimes_ this morning had been sentenced to die. Most by beheading, but a few claimed by the Lady Melisandre for ceremonies that Sansa had no plans of watching. The screams last night had reached all the way into her room. She'd had a hard time thinking that even Joffrey deserved to scream like that.

Stannis waited for an answer, but the only sound was a faint clanking sound as links of chain rattled together. It looked like the chains were all that kept him upright.

Sansa remembered kneeling in that very spot waiting for Joffrey to shoot her dead. All alone, until Tyrion Lannister of all people had come forward to protect her.

Today there was no one to protect any of the prisoners at all.

“Your Grace.” Sansa was amazed to hear her own voice – loud and confident. She took a step forward; everyone was already turning to look at her anyway. “May I speak?”

Stannis seemed a little irritated, but nothing more. After she'd braved such terrible looks from Joffrey she didn't even flinch. “About this man?” Stannis asked, jerking his head in the Hound's direction.

“Yes, Your Grace. If I could-”

“I don't need to hear your opinion on what I should or shouldn't do with him,” the king said curtly. “The judgment is up to me. If you've borne witness to events that could inform my decision, however, I’ll hear you.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I- I have.”

“Very well. Speak: plainly and truthfully.”

Sansa took a deep breath. The Hound still looked to be in a stupor. Didn't even look up at her. “Joffrey used to call on his Kingsguard to beat me,” she said, as calm as she could. “If I'd displeased him, or if a battle had gone against him, or if he was in a mood for no reason at all.” She could hear people shifting, muttering uncomfortably. “The court watched and laughed. It was awful.”

Stannis seemed totally unaffected; all he did was nod at her to go on.

“All except the Hound,” she said. At the sound of his name, he at last raised his head – dull and listless, though, and slow as if he were almost asleep. “He never hit me. Never expressed _amusement_ when people did.” Her voice trembled a little with loathing; she swallowed to firm it up. “A few times he even protected me in small ways – spoke up to deflect Joffrey’s anger, or supported some excuse I was making. That sort of thing.” She looked down at him, but totally aside from his burns he was so disturbing that she couldn’t look long. _I’m trying to save your life,_ she wanted to shout at him. _Can’t you encourage me_ _ **at all**_ _?_ She returned her eyes to Stannis and straightened her shoulders. “I think it's only right that I speak up for him in turn. Thank you for hearing me.”

“Mm.” Stannis looked down at him. Considered. “I wouldn’t punish you for standing by Joffrey’s side to shield him,” he said after a short silence, “Because those were Robert’s orders. But that’s not what we found you doing, is it. Joffrey was cowering in the keep, while you were out in the thick of the fighting. You took up arms to resist _my_ lawful entry into _my_ city and onto _my_ throne. What do you have to say for yourself? Speak if you will – this is your only chance.”

The Hound just stared blankly. Something had _happened_ to him, Sansa could see it. She could remember moving through a stupor like that herself, days of it, floating along without a shred of vitality or any will to live.

Her maid Shae had sometimes been able to break through her haze by angering her. “ _Say_ something, you fool,” she hissed down to him.

He looked square at her, finally… but his eyes were glazed and unfocused. “Kill me quick,” he said, to no one in particular. “No burning. Whatever else I've done, I’ve never refused anyone a quick death who asked for it.”

 _Burning_? She’d known Stannis had planned to execute him, but burning the Hound was much crueler than she’d imagined. “Your Grace-…” she stopped. What was she going to say – _please_? Pleas meant nothing to Stannis; he needed reasons.

While Sansa fumbled for some rational argument to make, the king spoke to his priestess. She bent down and whispered in his ear. Whispered a long time.

At last Stannis shifted in his seat. “Taking up arms against your king is treason that deserves execution,” he said shortly. “You are therefore under sentence of death. The Lady Melisandre believes you'd be a sacrifice pleasing to her- to God.” Stannis cleared his throat. “However. As I’m sure you’ve heard, I mind the good _and_ the bad. That you defended the Lady Sansa weighs heavy in your favor; the whole reason for her suffering was that her father spoke for me and died for my cause. The good you've done – little as it was, frankly, but better than nothing – deserves some consideration.”

Sansa could hardly breathe. They were going to grant his request of a beheading; Stannis was going to show him the same _mercy_ that Joffrey had shown her father. “Your Grace, please,” she said desperately. No idea what she was even going to ask for.

Stannis didn’t even look at her. “You’ve said your piece, girl. Don’t interrupt your king.”  She swallowed and tried to get up the nerve to disobey him.  Before she could, though, Stannis went on.  “I’m willing to commute your sentence,” he said without emotion. “You can feed the Lady Melisandre's fires if you want to, or you can go up to the Wall. They'll need men there in the days ahead – and no one denies that you can take orders and swing a sword.”

The Hound finally fixed his eyes on the king. “You'll send me to the Wall? Alive?”

“Aye. Assuming you'd rather that than burn? Thought so. All right, that's settled; back to the cells with him. Who's next?”

* * *

Surely, now that the terror of fire had passed, he would be better. Everyone knew that the Hound feared nothing except for fire.

“I need to speak to your prisoner,” she told the guard. “King Stannis said I can speak.”

She wasn't _that_ bad a liar, it seemed: the guard unlocked the door and let her into the cell.

The Hound was in there alone. The slit of the window let in enough light for them to see each other, and when he recognized her he scrambled away from her on all fours. “The fuck you want?” he spat.

He sounded almost panicked – she didn't understand. “I-... I just wanted to... to check on you,” she stammered. “Today you looked-...” No, he wouldn't like that. She swallowed. Thought of something better. “If King Stannis is sending you to the wall,” she said, “We'll never see each other again. I just thought we should say farewell.”

He was dressed now, at least, and unbound except for a set of leg irons that wouldn’t let him run or ride. He got to his feet – slowly, and holding onto the wall. Came forward a few steps and looked at her closely.

She _made_ herself stare at his face and not look away; he always got terribly angry when she looked away. Up close his face looked worse than ever. There were the burns of course, but also his eyes were sunken and haunted now, and he bore clear signs of a beating. The lump over his eye she didn't know much about; it looked like he'd been bashed in the head with a rock and thankfully she'd never had _that_ done to her, but she could tell from experience that the swelling on his cheek and lip would be around for at least a few days.

He cleared his throat and wiped his mouth. “Sansa Stark,” he said.

“Yes...?” she frowned, not understanding.

He nodded and relaxed. “The red woman,” he explained. “She's a skinchanging witch. She came to me...” He made a loopy gesture in Sansa's direction, then shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Oh-...” She risked a smile. “No, I really am Sansa. Shall I prove it to you?”

He nodded.

“You call me _little bird._ You-... never hit me. For Joffrey.”

“No.” He shook his head. “You said that in the throne room. Something else.”

She heaved a sigh.  “You were with me when Joffrey showed me my father's head. I wanted to push him off and kill him, but you stopped me.”

He turned to the wall and spread his hands against it. Bracing himself against weakness? Or just hiding his face from her? “No,” he said. But before she could get even more exasperated he went on: “Joff could have survived a fall from that height. With your luck, _would_ have. And then...” He shook his head.

Her turn to stare. “You... did that to protect me.”

“No, I did that to protect Joffrey. Loyal dog that I am.” He turned to face her. “Doesn't make it any less true, though. You weren't killing anything.”

She felt a little less warm, but she forced herself not to back down. “Still. We should say farewell to each other.”

“All right. Farewell.”

“Ser-...” she stopped. Backtracked. “You don't like _ser,_ I know that. I'm sorry. It's been... a long day. A long-... a long year.” She felt her hands twisting nervously, and tried to still herself. “Please be civil. I'm only asking for a moment.”

“Aye.” He laughed a little. “Deserve that much, do you?”

She forced herself not to back down or look away. “I think I do.”

“Fair enough.” He drew himself up, wiped his face blank. “Lady Sansa: thank you.” He curved a moment, almost a bow. “You saved my shit life today for no damn reason. It was very kind of you. Now if you'll take some advice from someone a lot less silly than you: don't make a habit of kindness. It'll get you killed.”

She ignored that last bit. “You're welcome.” She gave him half a curtsy. “And thank you, for... for everything. For not making things worse for me.” She realized suddenly that she was smiling widely. Almost giddy. She'd made it through. It was over; she was never going to have to cower before the throne, before the Kingsguard... before _him..._ ever again. “I'll never forget you,” she added suddenly. “You're so... fierce.” Once she started talking she couldn't stop. “So strong. If ever I need to find courage for something, I'm going to think of you.”

He looked pained. “Girl... Don't.”

“I am. And you can't stop me; you won't even know.” She smiled. Bit her lip. “Well. Farewell-, uh-...” She didn't even know what to call him.

He winced. Heaved a sigh. “All right: just this once. You highborns really do love your lies, don't you.”

She ignored that. It was amazing how much easier the Hound was to deal with when you simply _ignored_ all the cruel things that came out of his mouth. She couldn't believe she hadn't tried it earlier. “Farewell, my lord.” She even pushed her luck: held her hand out and waited for him to come kiss it.

He looked from her hand to her face a few times, suspicious, but whether it was fear or mockery he was looking for Sansa knew he wasn't going to find it. At last he scowled at her, closed the distance between them, took her hand and bent over it. “Farewell, little bird,” he said. His lips brushed her lightly – and it gave her a thrill, because while a kiss on the hand was usually an empty courtesy, she knew that the Hound didn't make empty courtesies. They stood for a moment and then he looked up, her hand still in his. “Fuck it,” he said roughly. “Use my damn memory however you like. I'm damn sure going to use yours.”

She left the cell feeling warmed and flattered: her kindness had finally made an impression! By the time it occurred to her that he'd probably meant something else entirely, he was long gone and all she could do was blush at her own naivete. And fume. _No true knight,_ he would have told her himself, smiling nastily.

She still didn't regret having spoken for him.

* * *

The End.

**Ta-da! A happier ending.  Let me know what you think!**

 

 


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